


nests of wild things in his hair

by y0u_idjits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/y0u_idjits/pseuds/y0u_idjits
Summary: His hands are fidgeting nervously, a tremor running through them, and, distantly, she wonders if he’s ever told anyone this before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Gather Yourself" by Jewel Kilcher

_Gather yourself by the sea shore and I will love you there._

_Assemble yourself with wild things,_

_with songs of the sparrow and sea-foam._

_Let mad beauty collect itself in your eyes_

_and it will shine - Calling me._

_For I long for a man with nests of wild things in his hair._

_A man who will Kiss the Flame._

\- Jewel Kilcher

**:::**

“Why did you grow your hair out?”

It’s not what Lydia means to say, not really. She doesn’t know why her mind latched onto this detail about him, considering it’s been years since his hair was short. Truthfully, it’s her (pitiful) attempt to take her mind off their research into the most recent disturbance in Beacon Hills. _God_ , she thinks, frustrated and too tired to be dealing with this constant cycle of death, destruction and chaos, _do we ever get a break?_

Stiles looks up from the tome on the desk in front of him, tearing his eyes away from what seems to be a passage on the Wild Hunt, of all things. His right hand raises itself and his fingers start to run through the long strands of hair, thick with gel and standing up as straight as possible, before stopping, clenching slightly.

In all the years Lydia has known him, (though it would be more accurate to say she was vaguely aware of him, rather than actually knowing more than his name, what feels like years ago) Stiles had kept his hair short in that buzz cut style. It had always given him a younger look, more vulnerable and innocent. His new hairstyle, however, and she can say this objectively, ignores the cuteness factor and goes straight for the double-take effect. It’s a look nobody expected, really. Sophomore year ended quietly, the student body assuming that Stiles Stilinski was an average-looking student, nobody to take note of, exactly. Summer passed quickly, however, and now said boy ambles down the hallways of Beacon Hills High School, a thick head of hair on him as well as the attention of many a student.

“My hair?” His voice is laced with suspicion. “You’re asking me about my _hair_?” Stiles watches her strangely, no doubt expecting some ulterior motive to arise from her line of questioning.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a simple question, Stiles,” she huffs, slightly embarrassed, flicking the page of the book in her hands. “Why did you stop cutting it?”

He looks from her, to his book, then back to her, before sighing. His fingers fidget with the corner of the page, causing her curiosity to grow with every second of silence that passes.

“My mom,” he says finally, “loved when I had hair that was a bit longer, y’know? It used to flop all over my face and she’d just brush it out of the way, loved to run her hands through it.” His smile is small, his eyes distant. It’s a fond memory, whatever he’s thinking of; Lydia doesn’t see that expression on his face too often, these days.

“When she got sick,” Stiles continues, his voice soft, “I used to go see her in hospital, every single day after school. I’d always-” he breaks off with a small laugh, “-I’d always bring in whatever the latest comic I had was, and I’d go into so much _detail_ , trying so hard to explain to her who was fighting who, or what the bad guy had done, and she’d just,” he chuckles, a grin on his lips, “she’d just sit there, running her hands through my hair, nodding every now and then to say she understood.”

Lydia smiles at the picture in her head. No one could ever deny Stiles’ ability to talk for hours on end; it shouldn’t surprise her that he’s always been this way.

“The disease,” he begins, and his voice has a rough quality to it, a blend of pain and guilt and anger, “frontotemporal dementia, it’s called; the symptoms can include memory loss, confusion, and personality changes.” He swallows, and Lydia wishes she could do the same, but her heart is suddenly beating wildly in her chest in anticipation of what’s coming.

“She – she stopped remembering who I was, sometimes; like I’d go see her after school and some days she wouldn’t recognise me. She started,” he laughs a little, but it’s awful and wrecked and she wishes she’d stuck with the damn research, because she doesn’t know what she’ll do if this brave and beautiful boy cries.

“She stopped being herself, really,” Stiles says, finally, on an exhale, “became really aggressive, always shouting at the nurses. She didn’t like me at all, thought I was trying to kill her, to hurt her. Dad would always explain that it was the disease, you know? That it wasn’t really her anymore… but sometimes it was.” He’s whispering now, “Sometimes she’d be my mom, smiling at me and holding my hand.

“It was one of her good days,” he says. “She was acting normally, so Dad went back to the station. I stayed with her, and she fell asleep running her hand through my hair. I didn’t even realise when she woke up – I could only feel her pulling my hair.”

His hands are fidgeting nervously, a tremor running through them, and, distantly, she wonders if he’s ever told anyone this before.

“It started to hurt, you know? I tried to pull away so she’d stop, but she didn’t, and the harder I tried the worse it got. I can just remember lying half on the hospital bed, screaming my head off so that someone could come save me from my mom – my mom who was hurting me and making me cry. My mom who I didn’t want to be around at all anymore, but who else would, if I wasn’t there?”

Lydia watches him take a shuddering breath while she sits there, frozen, desperate to say something but knowing anything she has to offer would never be enough.

“I don’t think Dad knew, but he didn’t say anything when I asked him to shave it all off that night.” Stiles makes an aborted gesture towards his hair, as if what he was saying needed to be cleared up for her. His breathing is ragged and his voice is ruined when he next says,

“You want to know why I feel guilty for my mom dying? Why I blame myself?”

Lydia can’t, _won’t_ listen to this. “Stiles, please-“

“It’s because I wished every day,” he pushes on, voice cracking as he ignores the tears in her eyes so that he can get this all out, finally, “that she would, so that I wouldn’t be scared of her anymore, so that I could go back to remembering her as my mom who tucked me in at night. Not that person she became, the one who I never wanted to visit, the one who I used to hate for stealing whatever was left of my mom. I wanted that person to die, and if that meant losing my mom too…”

His voice trails off into silence, and he look up at her, eyes open and hurt. She can see the pain in them, that same pain that’s been building up every time he thinks he’s let someone down. It’s Stiles’ punishment, his penance for – in his eyes – not being good enough. It’s the burden he carries all day long and never shares with anyone.

It’s the demon he never allows any of them to see, worse than the nogitsune because it’s all of his own making.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?”


End file.
